


Homesick

by Imagine_Darksiders



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Blood and Injury, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nosebleed, Parent-Child Relationship, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27512026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagine_Darksiders/pseuds/Imagine_Darksiders
Summary: It’s been two years since you and the Horseman ended your journey together by resurrecting the souls of your fellow humans. Since then, you’ve returned to Earth to build a new life from the ashes of a broken, old house in the city. Death has been to see you there many times, but today is the first day that your newer, but no less dear friend, Azrael is accompanying the Horseman for a visit. Together, the two of them arrive at your front door... They aren’t at all prepared for what they find.
Relationships: Azrael/Death (Darksiders)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

“Death! Over here!”

No sooner has the Horseman stepped out of his swirling portal and emerged onto a busy, city street than he immediately hears a familiar voice calling his name.

Humans of every shape and size skirt around him as they make their way to and fro along the concrete path, some eyeing him suspiciously while others stop and openly gawk. He ignores them all, instead scanning the waves of people breaking around him until finds his quarry.

Azrael, a tall and stately Archangel and Guardian to the Well of Souls, sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the throng of humans, not least because he towers impressively over the heads of every one that passes him by. Feathery wings of blinding white gleam under the midday sun and sway like sail boats on a gentle sea, the tips of his primary feathers sweeping just millimetres above the ground. He lifts one hand to beckon the Horseman over and a long sleeve of teal silk falls down and gathers around his elbow.

Exhaling softly, Death makes his way towards the angel and tries his best not to notice the humans that scurry out of his way as if he'll strike them down should they venture too close. He notes that none of them shy away from Azrael in the same manner. Then again, he can't be too surprised. Azrael is, after all, everything that Death is not.

Charming. Amicable. _Incessantly_ polite... Not to mention his distinct lack of a terrifying bone mask.

It's a wonder he and Death are even on speaking terms, given their differences.

Still, though the Horseman is still loathe to admit it, at least they have a few things in common – one of whom is their reason for meeting here, in the centre of a human city that had once been overrun with demons.

He finally reaches the archangel, who nods in greeting, a smile pushing at his pale cheeks. “ _There_ you are, old friend.”

“Azrael.” Death returns the gesture of mutual respect, dipping his head low. The angel may be among the only beings in Creation who'd be privy to such a cordial greeting from the eldest Nephilim. Death tends to be extremely miserly with his respect.

Sweeping a lock of long, white hair over his shoulder, Azrael chuckles and says, “ I was beginning to worry that I'd have to make the journey without you.”

“Have you missed my company _that_ much?” Death teases.

And Azrael - all too accustomed to the Horseman's nature through millennia of practice – replies with a soft, “But of course.”

'... _Oh_...' Death blinks, taken aback for a moment until he notices the sly grin twitching at Azrael's lips. ' _Oh, damn you_.'

Even now, after so many years, the archangel _knows_ that he'll always flounder under the same ruse. Hit him with a dose of heartfelt sincerity and the Horseman's tongue sticks straight to the roof of his mouth, every time. It's one of Azrael's favoured ways of throwing him off balance.

Letting out a rough grunt, Death points himself east and begins to march down the street, trusting that the angel will be close on his heels. Naturally, it's only a few seconds before he hears the telltale swish of Azrael's vast wings and a flash of teal sneaks into the corner of his eye.

“You know, I hate it when you do that,” Death grumbles, though he does appreciate that the angel elects to walk, rather than fly. It reminds him of a day, thousands of years ago, when he'd been in the White City on official, Charred Council business. Azrael was the _only_ angel who had lowered himself to the ground, choosing to walk beside Death as an equal. The small yet simple action spoke volumes.

“Oh, I'm well aware,” the archangel hums casually as he follows his companion down a narrow side street that's still quite obviously in the midst of reparations. It may have been almost two years since humanity's resurrection, but there are still little pockets of the city that haven't yet been reached by construction efforts.

The fact that _you're_ living in one such, dilapidated area doesn't sit well with the Horseman.

You were the human who stayed by his side all the way through his journey to clear War's name and bring humanity back from extinction. Hell, you were a large part of the reason why Death had even made it to the Well of Souls in the first place. And you were the one who reconciled him with Azrael, one of his oldest frie-... _allies_.

You deserved a better home than the ramshackle, old house you'd settled down in. Although oddly enough, it had been your choice, for reasons unbeknownst to the Horseman. Oh, he _tried_ to convince you to stay somewhere less... built up. Somewhere in the countryside, perhaps. Alya and Valus would have been more than happy to build you a house - all you had to do was ask...

But, you _didn't_ ask.

And now, whenever Death visits you on Earth – an occurrence that seems to be happening more and more frequently of late – he has to pretend not to notice the gaping holes in the walls of your home, the locked door that sits ominously at the end of the first floor landing, the one you _never_ open, no matter how often he came around for a visit. So, he doesn't bring it up, and you don't mentioned it. That's just the way it is.

Across the road, an enormous Phantom Guard perches awkwardly on a too-small bench, chatting away with a human as if the two were old friends. It takes everything in the Horseman to refrain from lurching over there and impaling the demon on Harvester's hungry blade.

Gritting his teeth, Death forces his hand up and off the weapon's handle. 

On his other side, Azrael is graciously trying to wave at every human that passes him by. To their credit, most of them flash him a quick grin in return before continuing on their way, casting backwards glances over a shoulder as if to make certain their eyes aren't deceiving them. While it is commonplace nowadays to see angels amongst the crowds of Earth, it's still exceptionally rare to see one accompanied by a fabled Horseman.

Death can't blame them for staring.

“You know, I must confess,” Azrael pipes up, smiling kindly down at an awestruck child who totters past and gapes up at him whilst her mother drags her along, “The humans have made impressive headway these past few years. Even I was not certain they'd bounce back so well, and in such a short space of time. This metropolis is unrecognisable!”

“It isn't as though they didn't have help,” Death puts and nods pointedly across the street where a woman in a yellow hardhat sits upon the shoulder of her young, maker companion. The odd couple appear to be debating the necessity of adding cement flaunching to a chimney.

“True enough,” Azrael replies, “However, you know as well as I do that their adaptability is unparalleled.”

The Horseman's lips purse and he raises his dark eyebrows, silently concurring with the angel.

He's seen firsthand how swiftly _you'd_ acclimatised to the various realms. Any other species would take at least a century to learn how to live on a different world.

Humans have almost entirely reclaimed their broken, little planet in just two years.

But then, they don't have the luxury of time.

Death quickly shakes his head to clear it and picks up his pace.

Each time he ponders the mortality of humans, he starts to think about you and how you don't even have a century left. Admittedly, he... doesn't like to muse on that.

The Nephilim leads Azrael further down the now barren street until they come to a wall of crumbling brick, stretched around the perimeter of a building and broken up by a small, wooden gate.

“Well, I must admit, Azrael, you're right about their adaptability,” he mutters, drawing to a halt and staring up at the house that lays beyond the barrier, “ _Some_ humans will learn to live just about anywhere, if they have to.”

The angel drifts up next to him and follows his gaze, eyes growing large. “Is this-?”

“-Y/n's home.”

Azrael hesitates for several, long seconds whilst he inspects the place. Then, he utters a small, soft, “Oh.”

“Disappointed?”

“No, no. Not in the least. It's just...” Azrael trails off.

Snorting, Death risks a pat on the angel's silken sleeve. “It isn't what you expected.”

“...No. It isn't.”

Pulling his lips into a thin line, the Horseman allows his hand to slide off Azrael's arm and murmurs, “Join the club.”

Ahead of them sits an old, two storey house in a sorry state of disrepair. Shingles on the roof have come loose and fallen down into the overgrown lawn. An entire section of wall is missing from the upper floor and a large, blue tarp has been nailed haphazardly to the rafters and stretched down so that it covers up the hole. The white, exterior paint is stained nearly black with soot and a pair of window shutters creak ominously in the gentle breeze.

All in all, the whole place is utterly wretched, even by Death's standards.

He pushes at the garden gate and it swings open with a hideous screech as the hinges protest against years of rust.

“Y/n told me that'd be fixed the next time I came around,” he grumbles to himself, slinking through and stalking towards your door whilst Azrael glides slowly up the path behind him.

“Horseman?” he calls in a hushed tone as Death reaches the front steps, “You're quite certain this is the right house?”

“Given that I've found our young friend lurking within each time I've visited in the _past_ ,” the old Nephilim snaps, “Yes, I'm _quite_ certain this is the right house.” 

Azrael's jaw clenches but he doesn't admonish Death for the decidedly curt response. “Apologies. I would never think to judge your sense of direction, old friend,” he says instead and notices that the Horseman's shoulders relax a fraction, “This just isn't what I had pictured.”

' _Of course it isn't_ ,' Death wants to scoff.

Like Azrael, _he'd_ been picturing something different as well upon his first arrival to your home.

\---

_Tiny, spring flowers grow stubbornly through cracks in the pavement and refuse to wilt even as Death's shadow passes over them. He stalks up to the wooden gate, certain that he's got it wrong, that you've given him false directions on purpose as a practical joke. You_ **_can't_ ** _live here - in this old house without windows that remind him of a dead thing that's had it's eyes pecked out, with foundations only held upright by a lifetime of memories that refuse to let it collapse into ruin._

_Despite everything the Universe threw your way, you - a feeble, fragile human with no real talent for survival - managed to wade through it all and come out the other side to save your species and help Death clear his brother's name._

_You are a hero, deserving of a kinder, prettier ending than this._

_He half turns, ready to stride back through the gate and out in search of your real home._

_Then, a voice calls his name from the shoddy, white door that opens inwards to reveal a familiar face._

_You're smiling down at him through red-tinted eyes. “Welcome to my humble abode!” you chirp._

_Death doesn't smile back._

\---

The Horseman's shaggy, black hair falls over his eyes as he lowers his head, frowning at the memory and avoiding his companion's curious gaze. If even _he_ thinks your home is tragic, then he can only guess as to what the archangel must think. Azrael, while not at all ostentatious like many of his fellow angels, is at least used to a certain degree of grandeur.

Twisting his neck around to level a strict glare at the Old One again, Death says, “The human has been looking forward to your visit ever since arranging it last month. So, try not to let your disdain show, hmm?”

At that, the angel actually bristles and Death is satisfied to see that he can still get under Azrael's skin. “I'll have you know that I too have eagerly awaited seeing my young friend again,” he says coolly, “And I would _never_ look upon anything of Y/n's with contempt.”

The insinuation that he would _ever_ cause you insult or injury is an abhorrent idea to him. It had been _you_ who stood before your own people and spoke in the archangel's defense after he was tried by the Council of Angels, who reasoned that his fate ought to be decided by the human race. They were, after all, the wounded party thanks to his involvement with the Destroyer. Death had never seen your tongue shine as silver as it had in that moment. ' _Compulsory community service_ ,' you said was an apt punishment. Even _War_ was on board. Azrael was to help rebuild that which Abaddon had torn asunder.

The Council of Angels agreed, albeit begrudgingly, and humanity took a vote.

Thanks to you, the archangel was spared from Oblivion and Death was spared the grim duty of dragging him there himself.

Azrael has been besotted with you ever since.

Behind his mask, the Horseman's sharp, golden eyes soften around their edges. “I'm glad to hear it,” he murmurs, voice low and quiet.

Azrael is taken aback, realising that the grim and ornery Nephilim is apparently even trying to protect you from hurt feelings. Slowly, his eyebrows lift and his lips give an enigmatic quirk.

Seeing the angel's expression turn smug, Death's eyes snap back to their prior ferocity and he grumbles under his breath, earning a bright laugh from his angelic ally.

Deciding that they've wasted enough time dawdling on your front step, the Horseman reaches out and touches a few of his finger tips to the brass doorknob.

“Hold on. Aren't you going to knock first?”

Death pauses with his fist halfway closed around the knob and glances sideways at Azrael, a brow quirked underneath his bone mask. In as deadpan a tone as he can muster, he asks, “ _What_?”

A moment later, he finds himself wishing he'd ignored his companion and just strolled on into your home.

Now, Azrael has _that_ look on his face. The look that always serves as a prelude to some kind of lecture, or lesson. “ _Oh, here we go_ ,” the Horseman mutters to himself.

“If I am not mistaken,” Azrael begins, “It is customary among humans that, before one crosses the threshold of a home, one must first announce one's arrival by knocking... or ringing, as I heard it.”

Death's eyes roll up towards the sky and he expels a rough breath. “It's _Y/n_ ,” he says deliberately, as if Azrael is missing a vital point, “We can just... go in.”

“But...” The archangel's frosty eyebrows draw together and Death just _knows_ he's perturbed at the very idea of disrespecting you by failing to follow an 'Earth custom.' It's yet another quirk of the angel's that Death has never quite understood, but always admired - that unparalleled _need_ to be polite.

Letting out a resigned sigh, the Horseman steps away from your door and gestures towards it with a flippant wave of his hand. “Fine. Would _one_ care to do the honours?”

If Azrael notices he's being mocked, he doesn't show it. In an instant, the angel perks up, his pale eyes shining and the feathers on his wings lifting slightly off the bone. Death suddenly has the sneaking suspicion he'd been waiting for that question since they arrived.

“Oh, may I?”

Despite himself, the Horseman's lips try to quirk up at the corners.

Ever since his pardoning, Azrael's avid fascination with humans and their culture had flourished. After it was decreed that other species would be allowed to interact with them, the archangel had begun to inhale information at a frankly alarming rate. There wasn't a human alive who was safe from his persistent questions.

' _Reading about them is one thing,_ ' he told the Horseman once, ' _But first hand experience is quite another!_ '

It has been.... a long time since Death last saw Azrael so happy.

With an amused shake of his head, the Horseman juts his chin at your door and Heaven's greatest scholar wastes no time moving in and lifting a slender finger towards the button you've helpfully labelled 'bell.'

For a few seconds, he merely stands there, cocking his head at the doorbell as if he were trying to work out an intricate puzzle before eventually, he glances back at the Horseman and asks, “How long do you suppose I should press it for?”

Death's face falls flat. “Azrael-”

“I've heard about these, of course. But I've never actually... What if I break it?”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” the Nephilim huffs noisily, “However, if you hesitate much longer, Y/n will think we aren't coming at all.”

At the mention of tardiness, Azrael blinks widely and presses his fingertip to the bell at once, jolting backwards when a long, tuneful chime rings out from somewhere beyond the door.

“What a remarkable contraption!” he exclaims, casting his eyes over to check whether Death is as impressed as _he_ is.

Death is not.

Just then, the pair of them lift their heads up at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from the other side of your home's entrance and a muffled “Sorry, sorry! I'll be right there!”

As soon as he hears your familiar voice, Death subconsciously unclenches his jaw and some of the rigidity drains out of his shoulders. Hardly any time at all has passed since he last saw you and yet, much to his own surprise and frustration, he finds he's actually _missed_ you. 

Saving the Earth and Humanity presented an outcome that he'd fully expected, but in the end, had never really wanted. You… _left_. You returned to the Earth to help your people, and although Death _knew_ it had to happen eventually, he couldn't seem to shake away the fog of melancholy that draped itself over his shoulders once you were gone. He should have felt relief, really. The ordeal was over. His brother was safe and the Charred Council destroyed.

Yet at the furthest corner of his mind, a gentle grief existed, bearing your name.

The Horseman hadn't ever missed anyone before you, and thus the feeling was as foreign as it was unsettling. He even thought he must have surely come down with some, strange affliction and ended up taking the matter to Azrael, not least for the fact that he trusted the archangel enough to keep tight-lipped about it. What he _hadn't_ expected, however, was for the angel to let out an uncharacteristically sharp bark of laughter, spend a moment composing himself before finally smiling down at Death and informing him, ' _It's not an affliction that can be cured. You simply miss your friend_.'

Evidently so, given that he'd actually – dare he say – _looked forward_ to this visit ever since you arranged it over a month ago.

' _Creator_ ,' he smirks wryly to himself as your door handle begins to turn, ' _I'm far too old to be getting so soft._..'

Beside him, Azrael watches the door with a smile blooming across his angular features. Unlike his grim companion, the angel isn't sheepish about his eagerness to see you again.

The door begins to swing open and for just a second, they're treated to a brief glimpse of you, half cloaked in the shadow cast by your door.

Then, without warning, your eyes bulge from their sockets and you let out a yelp of alarm, slamming the door shut once again before either of them can open their mouths and offer you a greeting. Several, long instances trickle by in which Death and the archangel merely blink at the entrance, neither entirely sure how they ought to proceed.

After wallowing in silence for a while more, the Horseman asks, “Did you read anything about human customs that might have mentioned _that_?”

When he garners no response, he tips his head up to peer at Azrael. Something in his stomach twists when he catches the angel's expression.

“Horseman,” he mutters carefully, turning an uneasy look onto Death, “Did you see Y/n's face?”

A shadow falls over the Nephilim's eyes but before he can reply, a tiny voice slips underneath the threshold.

“Shit! I didn't realise it was you! I wouldn't have opened -... What are you guys _doing_ here!?”

Now, Death's timekeeping skills may not be anything to brag about. However, he's fairly certain that Azrael's are impeccably reliable. The angel wouldn't – _couldn't_! - have gotten the day wrong.

“Perhaps it's my old age,” Death hums sardonically, “But I could have **sworn** _you_ were the one who asked us here.”

“...Was... that today?” There's a pause. Then, they hear a muffled, “ _Dammit_...”

Azrael can't help himself. He moves closer to the door and places his palm delicately against the wood. “Y/n?” he calls, “Please, I must insist you let us in.”

Death doesn't possess a working pulse, but there's something under his skin that starts to throb with agitation at the worry in Azrael's tone.

“What's wrong?” he hisses at the angel.

Your stammered, 'N-nothing's wrong!” is lost beneath Azrael's urgent reply.

“I think Y/n's been hurt.”

Be it by intuition or sheer luck, you at least had the wit to back away from your front door, because not a second after you heard Azrael's frustratingly on point assumption, the entire thing buckles and explodes inwards with an almighty crash. It ricochets off the wall and would have probably swung shut again if Death hadn't suddenly come storming through it with Azrael keeping close to his heels.

You stand shocked in your cramped little hallway, feet glued to the carpet as the Horseman turns a raging glare on you.

The moment he sees you however, he freezes in his tracks.

Quick as a flash, one of your hands flies up to cover the left side of your face in a last ditch attempt to hide what Death has, unfortunately, already seen.

Even beneath your trembling fingers, it's hard to miss the vivid, purpling bruise that sits like an incriminating badge upon your eye. The delicate skin around it is swollen and puffed up, sealing your eyelids almost all the way shut, though a tiny sliver of iris still manages to poke stubbornly through the mess. And it really _is_ a mess. The very edges of your bruise have begun to turn green, though the area directly over your eye remains an angry red, akin to the colour of War's cape.

You must have realised that trying to cover the damage is pointless because you defeatedly lower your hands and wring them nervously into your shirt, just to give them something to do.

The two, immortal beings in front of you remain still as statues, one with his mouth hanging open slightly, aghast, whereas the other's face is hidden by a mask of bone. You can still see his eyes though – see the storm swirling inside that golden and orange glare.

Nervously wetting your lips, you manage to draw in a breath and shakily release it. “H-Hello, Death. Azrael.”

The sound of your voice snaps the angel from his stupor first and he takes a glance at the _expression_ on your face, rather than the bruise.

Round eyes – _eye_. Mouth hanging ajar and moving around words that refuse to come. Fingers twisting knots into your clothes.

You look absolutely terrified.

Covering his mouth with a hand, Azrael shakes his head slowly from side to side, looking concernedly like he's seconds away from throwing up, were that even possible given his species. The Horseman shares his companion's mounting horror, a horror that is fast turning into burning, boiling rage.

Death can't blink, he can barely even speak.

The swiftly-building, cold wave of anger crashes into his chest, yet it battles valiantly with another emotion for total dominion and Death isn't so dim that he doesn't recognise fear when he feels it so suddenly, and with no time to try and suppress it.

Not a sound betrays his movements as he steps towards you, hand outstretched and a heavy weight settling like lead in his chest because, _Creator_ , that's – _that's Y/n_! That's his human, that's his friend!

He must have moved too quickly, for your good eye zeroes in on his approaching hand and you gulp loudly enough to be heard over the gentle swishing of Azrael's wings on the carpet. You don't mean to – it isn't Death you're really afraid of – but you still flinch, and that little motion hits the Horseman harder than any physical blow you could have dealt him. He doesn't stop though, instead he chases you backwards until he's near enough to slide his fingers around your wrist, preventing you from backing up even further. With no other choice, you stop and peer up at the Horseman through damp, glistening eyelashes.

Azrael is at your side a second later, although he at least isn't remaining eerily silent like Death, who exudes the same, ominous energy as the calm before a thunderstorm.

“Y/n! What in Heaven's name happened to you!?” he demands, his composure slipping away to reveal the frantic angel underneath, “Does it hurt!? Are you in pain !?”

His questions come far too rapidly and you flounder for a few seconds, opening and closing your mouth in the world's best impression of a helpless goldfish before Death abruptly hisses out a single word. Only one, but it's icy and sinister enough to silence Azrael and send a shudder through your soul.

“ ** _Who_**?”

All around you, the house seems to tremble with the tumultuous power behind his voice.

The grip on your wrist remains gentle yet sturdy and you know him well enough by now to understand that you won't be released until he gets an answer.

Resigned to your fate, you breath out a long, tired sigh and let your wrist go floppy in his grasp.

“It's.... a long story. Come on, I'll... I guess I'll fill you in while I get an ice pack.”

It's clear that Death's ire isn't going to recede, even with your acquiescence, but Azrael rests a gentle hand on his shoulder and after glaring at your black eye for a moment longer, the Horseman reluctantly peels his fingers away from your wrist.

Heaving a second, wearier sigh, you turn around and beckon for them to follow you down the hallway and into your kitchen.

It's a strange feeling, to have both a Nephilim and an archangel at your back, the two of them far too large to get through your doorways without having to turn slightly to one side, or fold vast, white wings nearly in half. You'd grown used to walking at Death's side, and even later, at Azrael's, following him around the White City like a starstruck toddler as he showed you all the things your species had never been privy to before.

You've never had _both_ of them in your home, not together.

The kitchen is small and nondescript, the walls a simple, faded yellow with a small window sitting above the sink and an island dominating the centre of the room. In one corner stands a cream-coloured fridge, and it, unlike the rest of the room, has been plastered from top to bottom with polaroids and photographs, each placed with a degree of care that indicates their sentimental value. Ambling over to the fridge, you flap a hand and the stools that have been placed haphazardly around your granite island. “Have a seat,” you offer, hardly surprised when you don't hear a scrape of metal on the stone floor. Glancing back over a shoulder, you find they're both standing rigidly behind you, neither removing their gazes from the bruise on your eye.

It's a shame.

You know how badly Azrael had been looking forward to getting a real, hands-on tour of a human home. But now it seems he can't look at anything if it isn't _you_. The guilt sits heavy in your chest and with it, an ounce of embarrassment, not only for being caught by your two, otherworldly friends in this condition, but also for the state of your home.

You can't _believe_ you'd forgotten they were coming today. If you'd only remembered, you could have snuck out the back door and hidden in the garden and you certainly wouldn't have a pair of _slightly_ overdramatic immortals hovering in your kitchen right now like tightly-coiled springs, impatient to hear the tale of your injury.

As if on cue, Death, always the more restless of the duo, clears his throat rather sharply, causing you to snap out of your thoughts. Rolling your eyes, you grab the fridge door and yank it open, bending to dig around in the freezer space for a bag of peas.

“Okay,” you say at last, standing to bump the door closed with a hip before slapping the cold vegetables against your bad eye, “First of all – this isn't as bad as it looks, all right?”

It surprises you that Azrael beats Death to a skeptical snort, though the Horseman's is soon to follow.

Ignoring their doubt, you shuffle over to the island and use your free hand to drag a stool out, hopping up onto it and draping yourself heavily over the cool granite, giving a little sigh when the bag of peas finally begins to numb the pain of your black eye. “ _Secondly_ ,” you add, shooting a look at the Horseman, “I don't know the people who did this and probably couldn't even recognise them now, so don't bother.” You don't even need to elaborate on what he shouldn't bother with. You know fully well why the only word he's said to you so far has been ' _who_?'

Meanwhile, Azrael's slender fingers have curled into fists on top of the island, bone showing clear through the thinner skin of his knuckles. Aggression doesn't suit him, you note.

“Might you be able to tell us _why_ this happened to you, then?” he implores.

From the corner of your good eye, you see Death stand a little straighter.

Exhaling softly, you lower your gaze to study the grey surface of the island, incapable of meeting their stares.

“So, you know how some humans are... let's say, more _religious_ than others?”

The angel nods and you continue, “Well, some people didn't like the idea that what _they_ believed in was being challenged by... you know, the _truth_. Anyway, a couple of zealots must have recognised me outside that park up near Tenth Street and came over, started shouting. They seemed to think the Apocalypse was 'God's plan,' and in helping Death bring humanity back from the Well of Souls, I essentially cheated them out of an eternity in Heaven.”

“But-” Azrael looks appalled. “- But surely they understand it doesn't work like that? They must have seen the... the...” Pausing, he places a finger on his chin, frowning thoughtfully. “Oh dear. What did you call it again?”

“Broadcast,” you can't help but smile.

Watching Azrael and Jamaerah try to fathom the intricacies of live television was a day you won't soon forget. Azrael kept getting far too close to the camera to try and see the 'audience' inside it and Jamaerah couldn't grasp how every single human on Earth could possibly hear the same message at the same time. The poor news producer had her work cut out for her that day. Still, the message had eventually gotten out, and those who didn't yet have a working television heard it quickly through word of mouth.

Soon, the whole world knew the story of the End War, of the Horsemen, of Heaven and Hell and the realms in between. And, they learned of _you_ and your involvement. The news had, of course, sparked some vicious debate amongst the masses. But in the end, everyone came to accept the truth. It was hard not to, with undeniable evidence of Heaven's existence speaking directly to them. Everyone remembered too, the initial awakening, when the world gasped for breath at the exact same time as soul and body fused back together and people were wracked for just a moment by the phantom memory of unimaginable pain.

The world descended into chaos all over again. It had taken the better part of a year to reestablish global communications and get word out, helped along by Earth's new neighbours.

However, there were still those who would not – or perhaps _could_ not – accept the truth of what had happened. Some such people are the very reason you're sitting at your kitchen island with a frozen bag of vegetables pressed over one eye.

Grimacing, you remove the peas, setting them down in front of you and glancing up to find that Azrael's pale eyes are still regarding you expectantly.

“Everybody got the message,” you shrug, “but then, some people believe in their ideas so strongly, not even solid proof will change their minds.”

“So. What. _Happened_?” The question comes from Death, his voice is pulled taut and strained as if he's deliberately trying to fight the urge to shout.

Snorting, you reply, “What? It isn't obvious? I tried to walk away, one of them grabbed me from behind and the other one took a swing.”

From across the island, Azrael's wings seem to double in size as the stark, white feathers rustle and distend outwards, giving him a dishevelled appearance not at all in keeping with his neat and tidy demeanour. Similarly, Death spits something in Nephilim that you don't need a translation for. Something tells you it isn't polite. Sucking in a calming breath, he bites out, “And.. _When_ did this happen, exactly?”

“Um... earlier today. They only got the one hit in before they were chased off,” you assure him before leaning forwards and resting an elbow on the island, sending the Horseman a secretive smirk. “And you'll _never_ guess who by.”

That, at least, distracts them both from their seething.

“Y/n,” Death sneers, “I am in no mood for guessing games. Who do I have to thank for saving the majority of my charge's face?”

“I'm not your charge anymore, Death,” you remind him, though you can't deny the warm feeling settling in your stomach at the thought that he still sees you as such, “and you're probably not gonna like who you have to thank.” You pause for nothing more than dramatic effect and you can practically _see_ the vein in Death's neck bulge. He hates it when you do that.

Still, you suppose you've garnered enough intrigue, so you sit back, reapply the frozen peas to your face and simply tell them, “Vulgrim.”

A sudden chill sweeps down the back of your neck as Death's hands clench into tight fists at his sides. “ _Vulgrim_ ,” he growls, “What is that little wretch doing so close to your home?”

“The awful merchant?” Azrael asks, a hand flying to his chest.

“The very same.”

You lift your shoulders in a shrug, arguing, “He's not _so_ bad.”

“Y/n,” the Horseman replies, deadpan, “He's one of the most insidious, conniving little snakes in all Nine Circles of Hell. He's never known to do anyone a _favour_.” He spits the word like it's dirty.

It isn't as if you don't already know of Vulgrim's unsavoury practices. Which is why you find it odd that you're even bothering to defend him at all, but the fact remains, he _did_ help you.

“Well, he certainly just did _me_ a favour,” you declare, “Came shooting out of one of his serpent holes and threatened to eat those people's souls. They didn't stick around for long after that.”

Both angel and Horseman exchange a look.

Rolling your eyes, you add, “Look, I'm not denying it was _weird_. I almost thought he was a completely different demon at first. But don't worry, I'm totally fine.”

No response.

You can tell there's some kind of unspoken conversation going on between the pair of them and that you aren't really being listened to at all.

Huh. Vexing.

At last, Azrael's eyes flicker over to you and he spots the furrow of your brows. Clearing his throat, he puts on one of those gentle smiles that, in your humble opinion, fits him far better than the worried expression he's been wearing since his arrival. “With all due respect, my dear,” he says, “I'm not sure that 'fine' is how I'd put it. But, the important thing is that you're safe now.”

“Yes,” Death hums softly, “ _Now.”_

You instantly catch the emphasis he puts on the word and let out a groan. “Oh, don't start using that tone.”

“What tone?”

“ _That_ tone!” You flap a hand at the Horseman's mask. “You had the same one when I said I was going back to Earth the first time! Listen, I'm – Azrael, don't give me that look, I _just_ said not to worry.”

The angel jerks his gaze to the side again.

Turning back to Death, you press your lips together and inhale deeply through your nose. “I'm going to be fine. This was just one of those things. Besides, I went through way worse when I travelled with you!”

The Horseman's insides twist up at the reminder. You certainly have been through worse than a black eye, that much is true. Somehow though, that doesn't make him feel any less perturbed by this new attack on his youngest friend.

All three of you lapse into silence then,

“Sorry, Azrael,” you sigh, peering up through your lashes at the tall archangel, “This isn't how I hoped your first visit to my home would go...”

“It isn't your home that I was most eager to see,” he murmurs in that Azrael sort of way that makes your stomach buzz with warmth, “I came here to see _you_ , Y/n.”

Biting back an ' _aaw_ ,' you hide your smile behind a hand and groan exaggeratedly, “Oh wow, has he always been this cheesy, Death?”

“For the sake of his pride, I'm going to tell you 'no.'”

Bewildered, the angel glances between the two of you, aware that he's being made fun of, but uncertain as to _how_. “I'm afraid I don't understand,” he says above your snickering, “How can one share the attributes of a human food item?”

His confusion only makes you laugh harder until the cheek beneath your black eye begins to throb and you're forced to quiet down. “Wow, I still have so much to teach you about humans.”

“Well,” he beams, eyes shining, “I _am_ very keen to learn.”

As the amusement fades and your chuckles taper off into silence once more, you breathe a long sigh, smile gradually diminishing when you realise they're both staring at you again. Azrael's lips may be tilted in the corners, yet palpable concern still manages to shine through the facade. You can't bear having them look at you like that. Death is subtler, but you can tell from the way his fingernails dig cruelly into the palms of his hands that the Horseman is just barely staving off his temper. You need a distraction, and you need it _now_.

“In that case...” You slide off the stool and let your peas fall back down onto the island with a wet 'smack!' “What are we waiting for? I haven't lost a leg, have I? I can still show you around.”

“Are you sure you're up to that?” the angel asks, furrowing his snowy brows even further, “I believe it would be better if you rested.”

“What? Because of this?” You point at your black eye and try to grin up at him reassuringly despite how it makes the left side of your face throb, “Eh, it's just superficial damage. Now, come on! I promised you a tour, and I'm gonna give you one! I tidied my room and everything!”

The angel is about to protest, about to insist that you sit quietly and keep your head still. Then, you're smiling up at him with a face full of hope and youthful excitement and suddenly, he can't find it in him to say no.

“Very well,” he concedes with a delicate bow of his head and extends his arm, sweeping it out towards you, “Lead on, my friend.”

He doesn't expect you to reach out and grab a hold of his hand with your own and tug him out of the kitchen, chirping, “Let's go! I have like, a million things to show you! Death's already seen the whole house but I've got some more stuff done since he came here last....”

Back in the kitchen, Death's arms lay folded across his chest and he gazes after you and Azrael with a smile on his lips that threatens to turn fond if he doesn't keep it in check. He knows the angel well and if he could hazard a guess, he'd say Azrael is still getting used to human mannerisms. Other angels don't typically go around grabbing hands, after all. But judging by the delighted smile the archangel tosses at him over a shoulder, Death imagines he doesn't mind a single bit.

He still remembers the first time you'd taken _his_ hand.

You'd been so afraid, deep in the bowels of the Psychameron, faced by an all-consuming darkness and Basileus's monstrous pet, Achidna. The darkness wasn't an old friend to you, as it was to Death. Your tiny hand had slipped into his and you wrapped it as far as you could around the length of his palm and fingers, never minding the chill that swept through your bones as it did every time you came into contact with him. There is some truth to the rumours of Death's pernicious touch, after all. Contrarily, your fingers against his skin were warm and small and he twisted his head around to look at you. Your complexion had been turned a pasty green in the light cast by the souls residing upon his chest.

_Creator, you had looked so much like a frightened child_.

Then, you had given Death's hand a squeeze and sent him toppling over a precipice.

For so long, he'd walked a delicate line between showing that he cares and keeping you at arms length. It, may not have been the first time he cared for another, but there in Achidna's dark cave was the first time the eldest Nephilim wasn't _afraid_ of caring.

He wondered briefly is that was the reason humans were so feared by the Charred Council and by a lot of Creation. If a single human could humble even the most depraved being in existence with the tender warmth of friendship, then what chance did the rest of Creation have?

If Death knows Azrael half as well as he thinks he does, the angel is probably being hit by a similar tenderness right now.

As your voice retreats further down the hallway, Death shoves himself up and off the island with a grunt and traipses lazily after you. Each step he takes, he battles the urge to storm out into the city beyond and reap vengeance from every last human who's hands are still slick with your blood.


	2. Behind the Door

“What lays beyond _that_ door?”

Azrael's innocent question causes you to stiffen and your steps falter on the landing, knowing precisely to which door he's referring, but unwilling to even spare it a backwards glance.

The momentary delay hardly lasts for more than a second and goes seemingly unnoticed by the angel, whose gaze appears too focused on the locked, mahogany door that stands quiet and guiltless at the furthest end of your landing. Hanging back near the top of the staircase however, with eyes sharp and turned just enough in your direction that they catch the hitching of your chest, Death _does_ notice.

Then, he blinks, and you're suddenly twisting your head over a shoulder to look beyond Azrael at the door in question, a smile on your lips but not in your eyes.

“Oh, that's just a storage cupboard,” you say casually, waving a dismissive hand through the air and continuing your journey to the opposite side of the house, “I've been in and out of there all week stacking boxes of junk up to the ceiling. Now, come this way, all the best human-y stuff is stock-piled in my bedroom.” 

You're too quick to disregard the door, too eager in turning to walk towards your room on stiff legs and Death _wishes_ the angel would turn to look at you so he might also see what the Horseman sees, if only to confirm that he isn't imagining things.

Alas, letting out an intrigued little hum, Azrael clasps his hands loosely behind his back and sweeps after you, all the while pivoting his head this way and that to take in everything your humble home has to offer.

\------------------

You had so nearly forgotten what the joy of discovery looks like in another person. To see the eyes of someone else grow wide and bright with unbridled wonder at a world you've long since lost a taste for.

Azrael's fascination at the most mundane of human objects manages to put a genuine smile on your face, though the ensuing pain still throbs like the beat of an insistent drum every time your cheeks press against your bruised eye.

Luckily, the angel appears to have missed your subtle wince.

After first having dragged him away from your television, you've managed to introduce him to many of humanity's _other_ wonders that lay dotted around your bedroom.

Before long, Death had even slunk inside to join you both, taking up the mantle of an uninterested observer and absently perusing your book collection in the corner whilst keeping a surreptitious eye on the goings on of his companions.

You've perched yourself comfortably in a bean bag, content to simply sit back and observe whilst Azrael explores your room, his wide, white wings folded neatly against his back in order to spare some of your ornaments from being knocked off their shelves. 

“This... ursine mammal,” he says, pausing beside your bed and poking a finger into the fur of an old, stuffed bear sitting atop your pillow, “Does it serve some purpose?”

You're too preoccupied with fighting back a laugh to answer him right away, and by the time you realise he's watching you expectantly, Death pipes up in your stead, cutting off any explanation you might have offered.

“I imagine it's only there for decoration,” he muses, casting a critical eye over your bookcase and the dozens of unread stories scattered about on the shelves, “But then, I have to wonder if _half_ the things in this room aren't just ornamentation.”

Knowing what he's implying, you spare the back of his head a scowl. It isn't as though you've had a lot of _time_ to read those books he gave you, not between rebuilding your own home _and_ helping humanity come to terms with life post-apocalypse.

“Ah!” Azrael's head shoots up and he tears his eyes from the bear, glancing towards you instead. “It is symbolic, no? In resembling a most ferocious predator, this bear represents the perfect guard for your home.”

He looks so damn pleased with himself, you almost don't bother to correct him, instead wrestling your grin into a pensive frown and nodding slowly. 

“Uh, sure! That is a pretty... _exciting_ way to look at teddy bears.” Hopping to your feet, you make your way over to the bed and sweep a few of Azrael's primary feathers aside, picking up the toy bear and squeezing it to your chest. “But mostly humans use these for comfort at night, when we sleep. We usually get given them as children. And, as we grow older, I... guess we just get too attached to get rid of them. Most humans keep their childhood toys long into adulthood.”

“Why am I _not_ surprised,” Death huffs, shaking his head with a smile hidden beneath the bone-mask, “You humans will get attached to anything that sits still for long enough.”

Azrael, on the other hand, looks as though you've just revealed to him one of humanity's greatest secrets. Rubbing his chin in thought, he says, “Remarkable! I've heard that humans are rather famous for the bonds they forge with other species, yet I never imagined that could extend to inanimate objects as well.”

“Yeah, you'd better believe it,” you smirk, placing the bear down on your pillow once more, “Someday I'll have to tell you about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower.”

At once, the Archangel blinks hard, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair line. “A tower? Surely that’s a jape?”

So perplexed is his expression, you throw back your head and let out a bark of delighted laughter. “What are you, _Shakespeare_? Nobody says ‘jape’ anymore, Azrael!”

Off on his own side of your little bedroom, Death's neck twists around slightly to regard both you and the angel as you engage in a light-hearted back and forth about the use of archaic vocabulary. He doesn't even realise that one corner of his mouth has begun lifting at the sight. 

There is a truth about the Horseman that even _he_ is reluctant to acknowledge, and that is that the constant slew of bad things happening in the Universe is... wearing. It’s _wearing_. To be on a constant path that always seems to lead towards battle or tragedy? Sometimes it feels as though his entire existence has merely consisted of one battle after another. 

He saves one world, only for another to be torn apart, he destroys a species, and another asks him to fight their war for them, he helps the makers but in doing so, inadvertently kills their elder. Century after century - a millennia of bloody battles and terrible sacrifices and trying to keep his siblings safe - If he ever stopped to think about it... 

Death’s eyes slip slowly shut. 

He has worked... _so_ _hard_ , hasn’t he? Is it really _so_ wrong if he enjoys these moments of fleeting repose? 

All of a sudden, a strangled sound leaves Azrael's throat and Death is yanked from his peaceful reverie. “Y/n!?” the angel exclaims, his expression shifting to horrified in less than a second, “You're bleeding!”

Apparently, mentioning your name and blood in the same sentence is enough to get Death's voice to crack as he whips around properly and barks, “ _What_!?”

Baffled, you raise a hand to your nose, dabbing at a sticky wetness gathered there whilst the taste of salty liquid drips onto your upper lip. “Oh, so I am,” you observe casually, only to have a pair of chilly hands curl unexpectedly around your forearms. 

Without warning, the terrifying visage of the Horseman is looming mere inches from your face and in another instant, one of his hands presses itself to your forehead and firmly – albeit gently – tips it backwards.

“Um... Death, we've talked about this. Personal space, remember?”

The Horseman remains eerily silent as he stares transfixed at the blood oozing from your nose and you squirm uncomfortably when the grip he has on your arm begins to grow even tighter. Meanwhile, his wordlessness allows Azrael to fret aloud in the background.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” the angel mutters, pacing back and forth behind Death, never tearing his eyes from the red straining your face, “You shouldn't be having all this excitement. You should be resting.”

It's difficult to hold back your groan of exasperation as you lift your arms and knock Death's hands aside, stepping out of his reach.

“Oh for - It's just a nosebleed! Honestly, _what_ has gotten into you two?” With a hefty sigh, you skirt around the rigid Nephilim, dodge one of Azrael's wings as it tries to curl instinctively around you and march into your ensuite bathroom.

Almost immediately, the angel tries to follow, but he swiftly has the door pushed shut in his face before he can enter and soon, they hear your voice filtering out to them from the other side. “I'm not a _baby_ , guys! Nosebleeds are no big deal, it's just happening because of... well, you know.”

Azrael's stomach twists itself into knots at the sight of yet another locked door standing between himself and his human friend. He's about to call out for you to let him see the damage when an icy chill sweeps across the room and he turns, his mouth falling open slightly at the sight of Death staring at him through unseeing eyes.

The old Nephilim's body has gone completely still and there's a haunted look about him, as though he's lost, or perhaps _trapped_ in another time, another place.

“Horseman?” Azrael murmurs uncertainly, feeling the cold prickle at the hairs on the base of his neck. Seconds pass and he receives no answer. Hesitant now, the archangel reaches towards Death's shoulder and, when he isn't immediately shoved away, places a hand on the frigid, solid muscle that bunches under his gentle touch. “ _Death_ ,” he tries again, and this time the Horseman's head snaps up to stare at him, as if only just realising he's there.

The angel ducks his head to better catch Death's eye, his voice soft enough that only the two of them can hear it. “Are you alright, old friend?”

A long silence stretches between them with only the faint sound of running water from your bathroom tap to fill it.

Then, giving a start, Death roughly shrugs the comforting hand off his shoulder and stalks past the angel towards your window, leaning his elbows heavily against the sill and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Azrael's concern. He doesn't think the archangel has ever been _that_ close to him before, close enough that the subtle scent of old books and clean linen invaded his nose and chased away the awful stench of your blood, effectively leaving his mind clear once again. 

' _Idiot_ ,' he chastises himself, eyes still wide behind the bone mask. How could he have frozen like that? In front of _Azrael_ no less. Creator, he'd never live that one down. He had – for lack of a better word – panicked, and it's as embarrassing to admit to himself as it is to have been _caught_ panicking. But...

The sight of your blood... The smell of it, sweet and strong enough that it even settled on his tastebuds...

It's pathetic, really. He is _Death_. He's seen and caused far more bloodshed than arguably any being in any realm. So why then does _your_ spilled blood hold his dead heart in such a cruel and unforgivably tight chokehold?

The redundancy of taking a calming breath isn't lost on him, yet he does it anyway, tipping his head up to peer out of your window, chest rising and falling with motions he could only have picked up after spending so much time around you.

It's begun to rain, he notes idly. Tiny droplets of water patter down onto the dusty window panes and Death follows the path of one until it merges with several others and is lost in the fray.

Down in the streets below, many passers-by have dived for shelter, yet there are still two figures who remain. One is an angel, whose golden complexion shimmers when raindrops trickle steadily down his face. He's standing in the shadow of a water-logged bus stop and beside him, leaning just a little too close, is a serpentine demon, scales black and glittering like obsidian. The odd pair rest almost shoulder to shoulder underneath the bus stop's awning, each sharing a brief respite from the rain with what was once a well-loathed enemy.

Death blinks upon seeing that their hands are intertwined. Dainty, golden fingers curl loosely around clumsier claws and suddenly, the Horseman feels as though he's intruding on their secret moment, so he turns back to face your room.

Azrael has drifted closer once again and there's a knowing expression on his face that causes Death to frown. Sure enough, the archangel spares your bathroom door a hasty glance before he looks at the Horseman once more. “...Death,” he says slowly, “It's... all right, you know. If seeing Y/n’s blood upset you-”

Hackles are raised in half a second, a set of sharp teeth clack together and Death hisses, “ _You think I'm upset_?”

Judging by the flat look he receives, that is _precisely_ what the archangel thinks.

Despite the obvious vehemence behind Death's tone, he's careful to keep his voice down, ever mindful that you're only a room over. Perhaps getting defensive isn't the best idea.

“There is no shame in it, Horseman,” the angel coaxes softly, “Y/n is _my_ friend as well. There has already been far too much human blood spilled this century.” He casts another, baleful glance towards your bathroom, quietly adding, “I didn't think I would be seeing it again, not this soon. And especially not from our human.”

_...Our human_.

Death is unnerved by how natural that sounds coming off Azrael's tongue.

Expertly, the Horseman wills his shoulders to slump and his muscles to relax, then, with an unmistakable air of indifference, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns himself deliberately away from the archangel, glowering at your bedroom wall.

And Azrael, wise enough to read the standoffish behaviour for what it is, allows his mouth to fall shut because he knows that, as far as Death is concerned, the conversation is over.

He has a care not to release a weary sigh. But with you shutting him out physically and the Horseman shutting him out verbally, it's difficult for even the composed archangel to keep exasperation at bay.

Just then, your voice calls out to them from the other side of the door. “Ugh, sorry about this guys. It's slowing down, but it hasn't stopped yet. I'll just be a minute!”

“So long as you're all right,” Azrael replies.

When he receives no response from you and no further input from Death, he lets his head drop into a disappointed nod, pressing his lips together. Suddenly, his presence feels a little too big for the space he's occupying. He needs to think.

Azrael leaves your bedroom with a far heavier heart than he'd gone in with, raking his fingers through fine, white hair and expelling a soft breath from his lungs, as if that might alleviate the weight settling across his chest.

So far, this first visit to your home has not gone as he'd hoped it would. Through no fault of your own, mind. But trying to focus on taking in everything you show him whilst he _knows_ you're in more pain than you're letting on is woefully distracting. That's without even _mentioning_ the creeping sense of unease that has been hanging over him ever since he first stepped foot through your front door. 

Briefly, Azrael wonders if Death had noticed the way your breath hitched slightly and your reply had an almost imperceptible, underlying tremor when he asked you what lay beyond the door at the end of your landing. He'd have to ask the Horseman about that later, when he's in a more talkative mood.

Already, the archangel can feel the beginnings of a frown forging crevasses down the centre of his forehead. He composes himself in another breath and finally lifts his eyes from the carpet, only to stop in his tracks. 

That door – that unassuming door to your cupboard lays ahead of him, quiet and solid as all doors should be, just sitting there under a flickering light bulb, as though it had been patiently waiting for him to notice it.

And notice it, he does, because something about the door has changed since he saw it last, something so obvious, yet also entirely unsettling. 

Where it had once been shut tight, now it stands ever so slightly ajar.

Despite everything in him screaming that he _must_ respect the privacy of his host, Azrael's curiosity grows too bold and he finds himself treading silently down your landing, his shoes making no sound on the grubby, cream carpet. Drawing to a halt, the angel's keen gaze sweeps over the wooden door, taking in hairline cracks and mottled rot that a hundred years has left upon it like battle scars on a warrior's face. Slowly, he roves his eyes down to the dull, brass door handle and he immediately falters, doing a double-take.

Sitting atop the handle is a very noticeable, very _thick_ layer of dust.

His brows knit together until they nearly touch and he reaches out to swipe a finger delicately along the brass. When he pulls away, he lifts his hand for an inspection and, sure enough, the pad of his forefinger is now sporting the same, grey substance.

' _Why would a door you claimed to use recently have so much dust upon the handle_?' The feeling of unease that had been stealthily keeping to the back of his mind now pokes its head out a little more, creeping forwards, daring him to acknowledge it.

' _Something's wrong..._ ' a quiet voice tells him.

Azrael's hand reaches out once more, except this time, it curls around the handle entirely and rests there for a moment as the angel's mind starts to race. ' _Y/n.... Are you hiding something from us?_ '

As soon as the thought enters his head, he can't shake it loose. 

Yes - he trusts you - he _knows_ you'd have no reason to lie to him, and especially not to the Horseman. And yet... Clearly there is _something_ beyond this door that you're trying to divert their attention from and whatever it is has you spooked.

Feeling more and more like a common criminal, Azrael keeps one ear on the room behind him and slowly begins to twist the door handle, wincing when its rusty springs catch and squeak in protest.

His wings shiver with anticipation as he pushes the door open.

What awaits him on the other side is decidedly _not_ a storage cupboard...

“A... bedchamber?” he murmurs to himself. 

Within an instant, he's hit by an oppressive wave of must and wood rot. The smell spills like liquid from the room and seeps into your hallway, causing the archangel's lips to curl, though he's quick to smooth his expression out again because there's something far worse lingering below the initial stench, something that – even after a hundred years – still clings to the peeling wallpaper and broken, dust-choked bed in the corner of the room.

It isn't quite magic, more like the residue of a dark and terrible memory. Azrael knows as well as any angel that memories can be immensely powerful things and capable of haunting a place long after the living are dead and gone. Hesitating, he takes a moment to steel himself before stepping over the threshold and entering that old, foreboding bedroom.

At once, he notices that, as with the door's handle, absolutely everything is covered in a thick layer of grime and dust, the television on the wall, the various, glass bottles that stand on a table at the room's centre, amidst which sits a single, yellowing glass.

Against the wishes of his own nose, Azrael takes a brief sniff at the air and grimaces.

Alcohol.

Even the most pious of angels would recognise it.

He dismissively turns his attention from the bottles and glides over towards a worn dresser that stands to the left of the bed, a bed that stinks of an odour he desperately tries to ignore. Upon the dresser are a vast array of what you;d once called 'photographs,' all of which sit inside basic, wooden frames. Inquisitive, Azrael bends down and peers at them, a soft smile worming across his face when he sees a familiar human grinning back up at him.

You couldn't be much older than four or five, but he'd recognise you at any age. It seems even as a child, you possessed that same, mischievous spark in your eyes.

You're standing alone, and in spite of a clear gap where a tooth has fallen out, you're beaming up at the camera so hard, he imagines your cheeks had to have hurt. In fact, the more Azrael inspects the photo, the more he thinks your expression most resembles a grimace, not a smile. He shrugs it off however, and moves on. After all, the facial structure of humans is such that they're capable of expressions far more complex than those of angels or demons. Perhaps he’s only misreading it. 

The next picture sees you looking a few years older, sitting in the lap of a tall, angular man wearing a white shirt that looks to have been frequently stained by all manner of substances whilst his face is stretched into a grin that makes Azrael's skin crawl. Captured in stillness, it looks menacing and shark-like. Worse still is the large hand that seems to have secured itself like a vice around your thigh, squeezing noticeably into the little, blue leggings you'd worn that day.

You aren't smiling as widely in this photograph....

The archangel's face begins to fall as well.

Humming, he moves on to the next picture and in an instant, that creeping unease suddenly rings in his head like an alarm bell.

Again, you're older here, perhaps early into your adolescence, and the smile you'd sported before is barely there at all. The same man is standing behind you this time, and his long, gangly fingers are clamped down over your too-small shoulders, fingernails digging so hard into the bare skin, the resulting indents are even picked up by the camera.

Your lopsided wince that could be mistaken for a smile at a glance shows off one side of your mouth and in it, Azrael can clearly see that you're missing a tooth.

He may not be the most well-versed on human biology, but he's definitely heard that children only lose the same tooth once. And that the process is a natural one.

Through the lense of the camera, your younger counterpart seems to peer up past the glass frame, past the fabric of time and space and straight into Azrael's misty, pale eyes, a silent yet clear plea in the tilt of your brows and the whites of your knuckles.

' _Help me_.'

All at once, the archangel feels sick. He staggers backwards, away from the dresser and doesn't even notice the golden halo on his back is thrumming with protective magics, pushing them outwards to envelope your entire house.

He doesn't need Jamaerah's second sight to know that you were afraid of that man who's eyes are stained the same colour as yours. Hazarding a guess as to _why_ you were afraid causes Azrael's throat to tighten.

Swallowing hard, he tries to regain his composure. The archangel has always considered rationality to be one of the greatest weapons in his arsenal and if there was ever a time to use it, that time is now. 

' _Perhaps... I am mistaken_ ,' he reassures himself, ' _I don’t know human customs nearly as well as I-_ ’ 

“Azrael?”

The angel gives a start and jerks his head around to face the door, only to find Death eclipsing it, his eyes blazing like twin fires.

Stepping forwards into the room, he hisses, “ _What are you doing in here?_ ”

The Horseman is quite certain he's never seen Azrael look so guilty.

Instead of giving him an answer though, the angel slowly breathes, “Where is Y/n?” Soon, he droops in relief when Death throws a thumb over his shoulder and replies, “Still in the bathing room, tending to a bloody nose... You didn't answer my question.”

Beckoning the Horseman closer, Azrael keeps his voice to a hushed whisper and holds the last photograph up in front of him.

“What do you make of this?”

Azrael's behaviour strikes him as so uncharacteristically odd and secretive, Death actually _hurries_ over to him and snatches the picture frame from his hands, making an effort not to appear curious about the room he's never been inside. The angel watches raptly as Death scans the photographs with his luminous, orange eyes. Then, all of a sudden, the Horseman's fingers tighten around the little, wooden frame, hard enough to make it splinter and Azrael knows his worst fears are being realised. He _hadn't_ imagined it.

Death sees it too.

“You guys shouldn't be in here.”

A tiny voice, low and trembling calls from the doorway and the angel's gaze snaps up. Death, in the meantime, remains too fixated on the photograph to bother acknowledging your presence.

Azrael drifts towards you cautiously, as though you'll bolt at any second. He tries to decide whether it would be better to apologise for invading your privacy or ask you why you look so terrified.

“Y/n,” he starts, paying attention to the way your hands turn over one another incessantly, “We were only-”

“... How... How did you get _in_? The door was - it was _locked_! You can't _be_ in here... Get _out_!” Your voice raises in pitch. There are tears leaking from your bruised eye, swiftly turning the skin underneath it slick and shiny and there’s still a trace of blood underneath your nose.

Death finally lowers his gaze from the photograph and holds you captive under a wide and menacing stare. “A storage room, was it?” he asks curtly, showing you the picture clutched between his ever-tightening fingers.

The moment you lay eyes on it, your back goes rigid and all the blood drains from your face. “Put that _down_!” you demand and lift your foot as if to take a step inside the room, but as soon as you cross over the threshold, you seem to remember something, and quickly jerk yourself backwards, stumbling into the hallway again and sucking down a ragged gasp, blurting, “Just – Just don't touch it!”

“Why not?” Death drawls and tilts his head to one side, calculating, “It can't be that important to you. You've had it locked in this _storage cupboard_ for these past two years.”

He's pushing you, Azrael realises with a sinking feeling, he's trying to provoke you into an honest reaction, no doubt. The archangel doesn't like it, but he likes the look of that man in the photograph even less.

“That's none of your business!” you snap, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your ribs. Unfortunately, your response only seems to stir something in the Horseman, who draws his head back as though you'd struck him a physical blow and he growls, “I hate to disappoint you, but it _is_ my business where your welfare is concerned.”

“ _My_ _welfare_ stopped being your concern about two years ago!”

Death falls silent, jaw clenching.

He'd be remiss to say that your comment hadn't struck at a place he guards jealously. He's painfully aware of the angel's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head and he nearly squirms at the pitying look he's receiving.

It would seem that Azrael knows him a little _too_ well.

“You never _once_ stopped being my concern...” the Horseman mumbles, his gaze moving down to the image in his hand. A younger, smaller you peers back at him with woe caught like sleep-dust behind your eyelashes. Death's eyes shoot back up to you again, the softness gone from his voice when he growls, “Why did you lie to me?”

Tensions are high enough that Azrael doesn't think it prudent to mention you'd lied to _him_ as well.

Apparently, a direct confrontation was not the best way to deal with this delicate situation, a fact that becomes clear when you cinch your jaw shut for a moment, gaze flickering to and fro between the angel and the Horseman.

Seeing two of your most trusted friends standing in _his_ bedroom with a symbol of your shame and your trauma held quite literally in Death's grasp sends your heart rate skyrocketing, fear like poison dripping down into your stomach. You can hardly believe they'd invade your privacy like this. _Death_ especially, who knows better than anyone the necessity for keeping some secrets buried.

He doesn't need to learn about _that_ part of your history - neither of them do. You don't want to have them worrying. And God forbid they should _pity_ you.

Squaring your shoulders, you spin about on a heel and begin to march purposefully down your landing to the stairs.

“ _Where_ do you think you're going?!” Death barks after you.

Chest heaving, you pause on the first step and cast a heavy frown over your shoulder at the Horseman, matching his ferocious gaze without a single blink. “If you won't leave that room,” you tell him, “then I'll leave this house. And I'll thank you both to be gone by the time I get back.” 

And just like that, you continue to descend your staircase and disappear below the wooden balustrades. Seconds later and there's an almighty ' _slam_ ' that signals you've had an altercation with the front door before leaving through it.

For some time, the house is weighed down under a blanket of silence as the pair of unearthly beings are left to stand in the aftershocks of their actions.

“Oh dear..” Azrael's stare is vacant, worried, and he has several fingertips pressed to his lips. “I fear I've reopened an old wound..”

“No. This... isn't your fault,” the Horseman sighs, “I should have addressed this sooner. I've known for some time there was something Y/n didn't want me to know. And, I suppose, I'd always suspected that this room might lead to some answers.”

Taken aback, Azrael turns a mystified look onto the Nephilim. He'd expected Death to lay the blame upon his feathery shoulders, after all, _he_ was the one who first ventured into this so called 'storage cupboard' and upset the proverbial applecart. Still, he finds it somewhat odd that the Horseman – a nosy creature if ever one walked the nine realms – hasn't ever tried to see for himself what lay beyond the door. Tilting his head, the angel asks, “You never thought to investigate?”

At the question, Death averts his gaze and shrugs one of his pale shoulders. “Admittedly, no, I did not.”

“Well... _Why_?” Azrael presses, though he already has an inkling.

After a moment of frowning pensively at the photo in his hands, the Horseman turns to look at him and he's once again thrown off by the level of emotion in those wild, striking eyes. Death really _has_ grown since knowing you.

“I never brought it up because....” 

“.... You didn't want to jeopardise your friendship,” Azrael finishes for him softly, and Death is only grateful that he didn't have to say it himself out loud.

At the same time, the two of them peer back at the photograph and the archangel is surprised at himself for the anger that boils in his lungs at the sight of that man’s hands on you. Death however, isn’t in the least bit surprised at the presence of his own rage. 

“Horseman...,” Azrael says, his voice eerily calm, “You don’t supposed.... Y/n might be trying to hide something _else_ , do you?” 

"The bruise...”

Furious, orange eyes meet cool and misty white. 

“It isn’t out of the question,” Azrael breathes, “A random attack from human zealots? Or-” 

“- Or something a bit closer to home,” Death finishes as he tosses the photo onto the nearby bed and turns to face the door. 

Outside, rain continues to hammer relentlessly on the house whilst a streak of lightening illuminates the bedroom and the two, imposing beings inside, one with dark magics crackling at his fingertips, and the other with a halo of solid gold on his back that thrums with violent energy as the glyphs on his wings begin to glow electric blue. 

Without a word, the Angel of Death and the Grim Reaper slip from your house and stride out into the coming storm, their ancient minds focused solely on tracking down their human.


End file.
